I Believe in Better Days
by astronomyluvr
Summary: Prelude to the upcoming story. Set after One Wrong Move. Sam's feeling the loss of Lou's death. Out of all the people in the world, there's one SHIELD assassin who can help him feel a little better, and Clint's determined to help. Posted this instead of BF&F...still muse chasing, sorry. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year


I Believe in Better Days

(-/\-)

He didn't need to see that carnage to know what had happened. The sound of the mine exploding in his ears brought back memories about all of the people he had lost in one way or another, what damage shrapnel and other types of projectiles had caused to their bodies. If he dared to close his eyes, he could see their faces, accusing him of living when they had violently died instead.

He was emotionally shut down, which made him seem as if he was devastated about Lewis Young's death. He really was devastated, but if anything, he was numb, trying to ignore the dark hands that were reaching for him, the arms that were determined to drag him down with them once again.

With the promise of being contacted for funeral information, he left for the locker room, sitting on a bench and staring blankly at the locker of the recently deceased. When his phone rang hours later – when it felt like days had passed instead – he dropped it with his things, taped up his wrists and knuckles and headed to the gym.

(-/\-)

Clint Barton cursed as his call was ignored, stowing the phone away with enough force that the case was probably cracked. When Agent Phil Coulson, his handler, had come to him minutes ago with the news, he had immediately tried calling his friend.

"Sam's not answering," he reported. "I want to go check on him."

"Flights are grounded until late tomorrow, Clint," Phil said, arching an eyebrow at Clint's dark look and mutterings. "I'll book us tickets for as soon as the weather clears. We'll get there as soon as we can."

Worried, Clint grabbed his phone again and hit redial, listening to the ringing until the voicemail clicked on. Silently, he curled up on the bed, listening to Phil as he organized a week off of work, his hand on his bow, ready for anything.

(-/\-)

When Sergeant Gregory Parker and his second-in-command Ed Lane walked into the barn a couple of days after losing Lou, the last thing that they expected to see was the grouping of SRU teams crowding the gym door. Pushing their way through, they were met with the sight of their rookie alone in the room, pounding away mercilessly at a punching bag, one of many that were laying around – some broken and some new.

"How long has he been in there?" Ed asked his fellow officers as they stared at Sam Braddock's form, his posture showing that the soldier mentality that they had tried so hard to break him of was back.

"From what we've been able to tell, he's been in there since the debriefing of Young's death," one of the other team leaders remarked.

Sharing a horrified look, the two members of Team One asked, or politely ordered, that someone keep a watchful eye on the man while the rest of the team was called in. Heading to the front desk, they were met by another member of the team; Michelangelo "Spike" Scarlatti, who was their bomb and computer expert.

"Spike, can you access the gym cameras from two days ago?" Greg asked, a glance telling him that the other man was confused at the odd request, but was holding his question off until the task was complete.

The camera angle covered the entire gym, and both entrances, showing Sam as he walked in maybe three hours after the debriefing had finished. He immediately started on the punching bag, and when it was getting too soft or worn, he changed it, taking occasional sips of water – not enough for a body to sustain itself during hard exertion.

The trio felt awe at the former soldier's stamina and ashamed that no one had thought to check up on him. The same was said about the last two members of Team One when they arrived to find that their rookie was probably feeling guilty about losing Lou, and not being able to do a thing about it.

Harmonic ringing got louder as Team Four's sharpshooter brought Sam's phone to the front desk. "It's been ringing ever since he walked into the gym," he explained.

Just as Greg was about to answer the device, it stopped. Seconds later, a balding man walked in, shaking his head exasperatedly. "Excuse me; I'm looking for Sam Braddock? I was told that he works here."

"Sergeant Greg Parker, SRU. I'm Sam's boss. And you are?" Greg wasn't sure of what to make about the man. He seemed too calm about walking into a police station, and there was something about him that just screamed "Warning, approach with caution."

"Phil Coulson. My colleague and I were worried when Sam never answered or returned our calls," the man replied.

Spike held up Sam's phone. "Do you recognize this number, sir?" he inquired.

"Yeah, that's Clint's number," Phil answered. The response was punctuated by the sound of an air vent being removed and a bird-like whistle.

Sam's head snapped up at the sound, revealing his haggard features to everyone. Clearing his throat, he spoke aloud, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Clint?"

"Who else do you know spends their time in vents, and likes it?" Clint popped his head down from the shaft, giving the man he considered to be a brother a grin. With a move that would have made any contortionist green with envy, he flipped out of the vent to land on his feet beside Sam. "I'm sorry that I couldn't get here earlier. All of the flights were grounded until yesterday."

"I forgive you," Sam smiled at the other man.

Choosing to forgo the rest of any niceties and opting for distraction, Clint took a look around. "So this is your HQ. Very nice," he commented.

"Shut up! Anyways, it's a hell of a lot nicer than your HQ," Sam retorted, ignoring the way the room seemed to spin or his weakening body.

"When the hell have you been at SHIELD headquarters?" Clint exclaimed. Turning to the door, he hollered over the heads of the SRU officers. "Hey, Phil, when has Sammy-boy ever been invited home?"

"Gramps is here?" Sam whirled around to face the door, startled to see so many people watching him. "Where is he? I owe him a beer or four."

"Which I won't take until you've slept and eaten, kid," Phil answered, walking through the crowd with the other member of Team One following him into the gym. "And what have I told you about calling me Gramps?"

"To only do it when you call me kid, Gramps!" exhaustion making him seem like a happy drunk, Sam gave Phil a grin and a wave. Just as he was about to shoot off another remark, his world turned dark and the next thing he knew, Clint was holding him up on his left while Ed was on his right.

"Got a place where he can take a nap?" Phil asked Greg, watching as the two men distracted Sam from taking another swing at the punching bag.

"Eddie, bring him to the briefing room. The cot's all set up for him," Greg told his 2IC, stepping aside to let the trio pass. When Ed came back alone, Greg turned to their visitor, his eyebrow raised.

"Clint considers Sam to be his brother. About a year before leaving the army and coming here, Clint was in an explosion and the closest base we could get to was the JTF2 camp. Unfortunately, they had run out of his blood type and any universal that they had. Sam volunteered because he was a match for Clint. Since then, they've kept in contact with one another," Phil explained, cutting out the details of the SHIELD mission Clint was actually on at the time. "When our boss contacted me about the whole PLC thing and the loss of a teammate, the first thing Clint did was call. When no one answered him, we got a flight out as soon as we could."

Slowly, every pair of eyes locked onto the closed briefing room doors and the drawn blinds that hid two men from the rest of the world in the dark.

(-/\-)

Clint perched on one of the chairs, looking like the world's ugliest mutated bird ready to swoop down on its prey. Instead of prey, though, he was watching Sam curl on his side, twitching as he tried to stay awake. "What's wrong?" he quietly asked, knowing that the death of his teammate had knocked loose a memory that was obviously bothering him. When Sam refused to answer, Clint hopped down from his perch. He laid a hand on the ex-soldier's shoulder, ducking under the wild swing that was the result of the unexpected touch. "Sam?"

"Sorry, Clint, I didn't mean…" trailing off, Sam shuddered as another memory assaulted him. Turning to the closest trash can, he tried to vomit, but found himself dry heaving and panting from the exertion.

There was something familiar about Sam's actions, and Clint decided to act on his hunch. "Who do you know died from a CR38?" he demanded.

"Her name was Kimberly Addis. She always told us to call her Kim, and she had a hell of a right hook for those who called her by her full name," Sam smiled at the memory of the little spitfire that had belonged to his unit. "She was just three weeks away from the end of her tour when it happened. We were scouting a nearby abandoned village, trying to see if any insurgents had recently taken up residence. We found fresh footprints and food, but not much more than that. We were on our way back to the hummers when she stepped on it.

"As soon as we discovered what she had stepped on and that the pin hole had been blocked, she smiled at us, said her goodbyes and told us to tell her fiancé that she loved him. She stepped off voluntarily, but it hurt all of us to not have been able to save her.

"Before any of us could do a thing, we were ambushed. Half of my unit was killed in the initial firefight and the other half was captured. They took Kim's body – what was left of it – and burned it while we were transported to some caves. They barely fed us, and there was no predictable pattern for when they took us and tortured us. It took a month before we were rescued. The team that found us was only investigating because they had tracked down rumors that a group had come across some intelligence that would help them fight against the armed forces. They certainly were surprised to find us locked in a tiny room, stripped naked and bound hand and feet with no room to move at all."

Clint couldn't think, but his actions said plenty. He knelt and gave his brother the hug he desperately needed to get past the memories of losing most of his team in Kandahar and just losing Young. "It'll be okay, brother. They'll live on with you," he whispered into golden hair, watching as blue eyes finally lost their haunted look and closed. Sam would sleep peacefully for the next few hours and Clint would keep watch, if only to prevent nightmares from waking the former soldier. Gently, he lay the other man down on the cot and sat beside him, a hand resting on Sam's upper arm. "Sleep well, baby brother."

"Only a day younger!" Sam sleepily grumped and sighed, falling into the comforting arms of Morpheus.

Hours later, when Team One and Phil trudged through the doors with food, they found the two asleep with Clint's head on the cot. Leaving them to their sleep, they ate in silence, handing over a nutritious broth and a carton of Cantonese fried noodles when Clint and Sam woke up.

No deep stories were exchanged between the two groups, but phone numbers changed hands when the SHIELD agents had to leave; there was a mission in Russia concerning an assassin, but that was never told to anyone at the SRU. With promises to call if something ever happened, the groups parted.

Six months later, Clint visited Sam after the events of the Godwin stadium and the killing of Darren Kovacs, and they got so shit-faced drunk that both Team One and Phil and Clint's new partner, Natasha Romanoff had to come and separate them from the impending bar room brawl.

Finally feeling as if he belonged, Sam rested his head on Clint's shoulder, contemplating his new family that consisted of a father figure in Greg, his uncles Ed and Phil, and five siblings. Though he had failed Darren in getting him the help that he needed, he had succeeded in moving past the hard points in his life, keeping the memory of those lost alive with every breath he took. It wasn't much, but it was all that he could do, and he was going to honor his decision.

(-/\-)

_Okay, so the ending probably wasn't all that great, but it was all that my brain could come up with. Please keep in mind that I started to write this on December 6__th__, and yes that is the day that part one of the Flashpoint finale aired. I was literally crying at the end of the episode and even more so when I watch the promotion for part two. At first I had the sequel completely planned out, but when I watched The Final Shoot, the half hour interview before the final episode, my mind switched directions and decided to add in the marriage and the terrorist threat to the city. My brain could help but grin wickedly at the thought of Clint's stunned face when Jules announces that she's three months pregnant._

_**My heart goes out to those lost at Sandy Hook elementary school in Newtown, the tragic shooting that occurred December 14**__**th **__**2012. May our prayers help you through these hard times and support the souls of those taken to Heaven and deliver them to Him.**_

_Merry early Christmas and New Years! Also, have a fun 'end of the world' on December 21__st__, the last day of the Mayan calendar. I bet you that the Mayan, the Hopi and the digital prophet are wrong about there being nothing after 21/12/12! After all, how many times was the world supposed to have ended in the past?_


End file.
